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November 29, 2014

People of all ages and backgrounds continue to get arrested while protesting the work on the Kinder Morgan pipeline on Burnaby Mountain. The whole event raises serious questions for Christians.

The protestors are clearly operating out of deep conviction, but breaking the law is serious business – especially in Canada, where the tradition of civil disobedience is not as well-established as it is south of the border. There, the Civil Rights movement and opposition both to nuclear weapons and the Vietnam War established as a legitimate form of last resort protest. Sometimes Christians even led and blessed those movements (remember Martin Luther King).

The modern model for passive resistance as a form of political action is Mahatma Gandhi, in his leadership of the Indian independence movement. And he made it clear that the ultimate model for innocent people who choose to suffer in a righteous cause was Jesus.

More recently, Anabaptist theologian John Yoder, especially in The Politics of Jesus has made a strong case that the highest form of Christian behaviour in a corrupt system is to live as righteously as one can and let the system show its poverty by the way it treats such inconvenient righteousness.

But is the system which is (apparently) bringing so much prosperity to Canadians through extraction of Alberta’s oil a corrupt system? Is there anything unrighteous about our participation in that system when we fill up at the pump? Is there anything contrary to the kingdom of God in the attempt to get that oil to markets and refineries?

Apparently not – especially if you survey the abundant and elaborate cases made by those promoting the pipelines. (If you need convincing, just google Kinder Morgan Pipeline, Northern Gateway Pipeline or Keystone Pipeline.)

My own brush with civil disobedience was 20 years ago, when my wife, Mary Ruth, and our daughter and I were among the 800 or so people arrested in the protests about logging in the Clayoquot Sound area on Vancouver Island. I still feel that was the right thing to do. I’ve written extensively about it elsewhere (see below for one article published in Radix).

I must say that if those protests and arrests were appropriate then, in attempting to change BC logging practices (and in that they were partially successful), such action is far more appropriate now, and the issues even more important.

This whole topic is way too big and complicated to talk about in a few paragraphs, but let me make a few points which might help us all as we think and talk about the Kinder Morgan protests, the pipelines, Canada’s increasing importance as an oil producer, the health of the planet and the relevance to all of this to our frequent prayer: that God’s kingdom will come ‘on earth’ as in heaven. Perhaps these points will give us a framework for thinking more wisely about how we live – and whether we should protest the protestors, support them or join them.

November 26, 2014

Fr. John Behr takes on those who dismiss Jesus Christ on "historical grounds," by explaining how historicism itself is problematic and, indeed, heretical. The alternative to historicism as our mode of interpretation, he explains, is Christ on the cross as the foundation of all our knowledge and interpretation.

November 25, 2014

Editor's note: This chapter of Compassionate Eschatology, edited by Ted Grimsrud and Michael Hardin, is used by permission of Wipf and Stock Publishers.

Orthodox Eschatology and

St. Gregory of Nyssa’s De vita Moysis:

Transfiguration, Cosmic Unity, and Compassion

Andrew P. Klager

INTRODUCTION

THE PURPOSE OF THE present volume is to introduce readers to a compassionate eschatology from the vantage point of various theological attitudes and traditions. What follows, then, is an outline of the eschatological themes that comprise an Orthodox Christian perspective.

As we navigate through an Orthodox conception of the hope endowed to all creation when Christ “trampled down death by death,” and which is assimilated by the Church through ascetic struggle, participation in the liturgical theodrama, and veneration of icons that depict and embody the Eschaton, the sentiment that “compassion” is a worthy foil through which to apprehend an Orthodox eschatology is justified.

With the conviction that a dialogue on the validity of a compassionate eschatology should depend not only on the outcome of theological conjecture and syllogism, but must also include a historical precedent, especially from the Church fathers, to circumscribe and frame this dialogue, the present essay will also appeal frequently to St. Gregory of Nyssa’s celebrated philosophical and ascetic treatise, De vita Moysis,1 as a highly apposite patristic voice to guide our investigation.

It has become whimsically aphoristic for Orthodox Christians to answer theological inquiries, and especially the more difficult ones, with, “It is ultimately a mystery!” But, this is true of its eschatology perhaps more than for any other theological issue. While the ecclesial schisms that have characterized much of Christianity’s history over matters of Christology, Triadology, and the like are at least comprehensible on a primal level, it is utterly unfathomable the many more recent schisms that have compounded as a result of squabbles over events that have not yet even occurred!2 An Orthodox articulation of eschatology is therefore unique in its reticence, refusing to speculate beyond the creedal affirmation that Christ “is coming in glory to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end,” which motivates his Bride to “look forward to the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come.”

1. For all English references, I will be using Gregory of Nyssa, The Life of Moses, translated by Ferguson and Mahlerbe (hereafter simply Vit. Moys.). Since this essay is appearing in a book whose audience is concerned more with Christian eschatology than with Gregory of Nyssa himself, all references to the original Greek will not be to the usual Gregorii Nysseni Opera, on which the English translation is based, but will instead be to the much more accessible: Migne, Patrologiae Graeca (hereafter PG).

ERASMUS AND MERTON: SOUL FRIENDS

The name of Erasmus will never perish. - John Colet (1)

Erasmus has published volumes more full of wisdom than any which Europe has seen for ages. - Thomas More (2)

I am halfway through the Ratio Verae Theologiae of Erasmus, loving the clarity and balance of his Latin, his taste, his good sense, his evangelical teaching. If there had been no Luther, Erasmus would now be regarded by everyone as one of the great Doctors of the Catholic Church. I like his directness, his simplicity, and his courage. All the qualities of Erasmus, and other qualities besides, were canonized in Thomas More. - Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander (3)

There was never anybody else on earth like Thomas Merton. I for one have never known a mind more brilliant, more beautiful, more serious, more playful. - Mark Van Doren (4)

There is no doubt that Desiderius Erasmus (1466-1536) and Thomas Merton (1915-1968) are two of the most significant and towering peaks along the ridge of the historic Christian mountain range. The slow ascent up such peaks takes much time, but the scenery seen from such heights opens up full vistas of beauty, insight and clarity. Both men, although separated by centuries of time, were soul friends. Many of their concerns were the same, and both expressed such a way of being in a most articulate and evocative manner.

November 24, 2014

They arrived in Jerusalem with their camel caravan after spending more than a month on the road. These wealthy and wise men called the Magi were clearly men of means—their style of travel was the first-century equivalent to a sleek, sophisticated Motorhome more than it was an ancient VW bus. On-the-street speculation about the purpose of this visit quickly ended when these dignitaries started to inquire about a newly born king of the Jews to whom they had come to pay homage.

Herod (the Great) was more than a little interested when he heard what had brought these esteemed men all the way to his kingdom. Appointed by the Roman Senate as king of Judea, Herod was popularly known as “King of the Jews,” though he was a non-practicing convert. As King of the Jews Herod naturally viewed any baby considered to be an heir to his throne as an eventual threat. Herod called some of the same Jewish scholars with whom the Magi consulted, and learned that the baby king had been prophesied to be born in the little town of Bethlehem, a suburb of Jerusalem. Pretending that he too wanted to worship this baby in Bethlehem, Herod told the Magi to let him know when and if they found him.

We know the rest of the story, don’t we? The story of Herod’s absolute, iron-fisted sovereign power over Judea takes one through a maze of plots, lies, treacheries, corruption, backroom deals, political chicanery and executions. Herod’s willingness to do whatever was necessary to serve his own interests makes modern day, ruthless gangsters like the fictional Godfather seem almost charming by comparison. Herod was a first century despot every bit the equal of 21st century madmen, intent on violently obliterating any and all potential threats to their selfish desires.

November 22, 2014

"Having read Holy Scripture very carefully, you should also read the holy Fathers who interpret the Scriptures. You will receive no less delight from reading the Fathers than you do from the Scriptures. The Fathers develop the hidden meanings in Scripture and with their own writings help us to understand what we did not before. Because of that philosophic axiom that all men by nature seek knowledge, we must say that great delight follows naturally when we learn about hidden and unknown matters. This is why there will be ineffable joy and gladness that will come to your soul from the interpretations and the words of the holy Fathers. You too will be shouting, as did David, those enthusiastic words in the Psalms."

-- St. Nicodemos of the Holy Mountain, A Handbook of Spiritual Counsel

Brad Jersak

Father, bless,

I've been noticing a number of comments and articles on the internet that discourage 'cherry-picking' the Fathers, by which the authors mean that we shouldn't proof-text whatever we want to argue using the Fathers out of context. I agree with this, but those articles also seem to undermine the importance of the Fathers and can dissuade people from reading them at all.

Andrew Klager and I were chatting about this today and he suggested that we should run an idea by you [Fr. Michael Gillis]. The idea is a two-fold question: If we wanted to encourage people to really read the Fathers, without just cherry-picking, but actually absorbing how they thought:

a. What reading list would you suggest ... which foundational books or works might give readers a good start. For example, core readings that I might include are Athanasius, On the Incarnation; Chrysostom, Divine Liturgy and Paschal Homily; Gregory of Nyssa, Against Eunomius, Cyril of Alexandria, On the Unity of Christ, Maximus the Confessor, Four Hundred Chapters on Love. I also like people to compare and contrast Gregory's Homily on the Beatitudes with Chrysostom's, to get a sense of the depth and variety. I'm getting asked about this more and more, so a list from you would be grand, and especially for my own sake!

b. But Andrew also mentioned that you would have good suggestions or principles on how to read them, so that we aren't just proof-texting. He gave the example of consensus: some things are one-timers, but other truths come out over and over (e.g. the defeat of death). Do you have a short-list in mind for such interpretations?

Many thanks, if you have time to help,

In Christ,

Brad / Ireneaus

Fr. Michael Gillis

Dear Brad,

I think the bigger problem is our culture’s tendency to establish “rightness” in texts. If we are not proof-texting the bible, then it’s the fathers. I think people need to be retrained to look inwardly for truth and then to have it confirmed by authoritative texts. The fact that St. John Chrysostom, or even St. Paul, says something has no meaning out of context—not the context of the text, but the context of my life. Truth cannot be objectified (and remain very true). The truth in the text must enlighten the truth already in one’s heart, thus confirming and strengthening it.

So if I say, “St. Porphyrios says…”, The actual authority of the statement lies not so much in St. Porphyrios' authority to establish objective correctness (as if because St. So and So said it, the discussion is over). The authority of the statement is established by its alignment with what is true and my alignment with that truth. This is particularly the case in matters that seem to be easily objectifiable (like what one should wear or eat or say or do or not do). Here by proof-texting we merely replace the Law of Moses by another law, but not the Law of Christ.

On the one hand, there is the matter of consensus; which helps us deal with error. It helps us say “no, that is not in the main stream of what the Church has said or thought.” However, consensus may have little meaning in helping me find Grace, help and strength in the words of a particular Father for my life and my struggles to walk with Christ right now. Perhaps an excellent example of this is St. Isaac the Syrian, whose universalist-like love for all creatures is not absent from some of the other Fathers of the Church, but neither is it mainstream. So, my biggest problem is the cultural tendency to look too much to the authority of texts to establish matters of theology that are principally matters of heart, which must rather be confirmed by the texts of the Church.

Having said this, as you know, I am a fan of texts. I think everyone should read the Letters of Ignatius of Antioch and the stories around Polycarp. The Rule of St. Benedict was very influential in my journey and the Sayings of the Desert Fathers, Life of Anthony, and bits of Maximus the Confessor, John of Damascus, and certainly homilies of Chrysostom and Basil (on social justice). I also like Augustine’s Confessions (it’s accessible to everyone). Then I would also include some more contemporary fathers like “Wounded by Love” by St. Porphyrios or the Life of St. Nektarios of Pentopolus by Soto, and of course some St. Silouan of Athos.

You know, I noticed that most of my suggestions have to do with my journey and my personality. I’m not very interested in theology—Athanasius’ On the Incarnation was boring to me. However, I find spirituality quite encouraging. God “speaks” to me through writers who only depress some others. So, another part of the puzzle of coming up with a patristic reading list is that what will speak profoundly to one person may be only boring or even depressing to another. (I wonder if Murray Dueck would get something out of Shepherd by Hermas—being the dream interpretation fellow he is).

Anyway, I always encourage people to start somewhere and read widely—not feeling like they have to pretend to be getting something out of what they are reading when they are not. Sooner or later they will probably stumble across writers that will speak to them.

November 18, 2014

Fr. Thomas Hopko’s famous 55 maxims contain four that I’ve particularly clung to over the years: “We don’t judge anyone for anything”; “Don’t try to convince anyone of anything”; “Give advice to others only when asked or obligated to do so,” and “Be simple, hidden, quiet and small.” Needless to say, I fail at all of them all of the time (and am right now). The following, however, is a reflection on these maxims for when I discover myself embroiled in exchanges that show the potential to turn heated real quickly.

I've noticed the habit among some Christians to justify their unkind words and scathing condemnation of others by pointing to a favourite verse—Matthew 3:7, when Jesus calls the approaching Pharisees and Sadducees a "brood of vipers." It is, however, not enough to point to Jesus as our example in such a wholesale manner; the more responsible thing to do is instead isolate what he commanded us to obey as the subjects of his yet unfulfilled prayer in John 17—that "as you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us"—and therein acknowledge that there's an imbalance in authority to speak so confidently. In this sense, Jesus didn’t tell us to imitate his brashness and confident criticisms when confronting untruth. Truth is not written or spoken, but embodied and ontological. To this end, Jesus has only commanded us to take up the cross upon which he was also enthroned.

St. Peter didn’t write, “For to this you have been called, because Christ was also unkind to everyone and exhibited a confidence that only God Incarnate could pull off, leaving you an example, so that you should follow in his steps,” but instead remarked, “For to this you have been called, because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example, so that you should follow in his steps” (1 Pt. 2:21). The Beatific Ladder celebrates poverty of spirit, meekness, mercy, purity of heart, and peacemaking because Jesus knew that our own frailty, confusion, and immaturity requires this of others and ourselves.

When Jesus said, “You judge according to the flesh; I judge no one” (Jn. 8:15), he was underscoring that we are all limited by the same finite constraints that confuse our judgment, and that he alone is unique in possessing a judgment that emanates from perfect oneness with the Father—judgment as divine Light (Jn. 3:17–19). This is a confidence that we should not trick ourselves into thinking we can have. When Jesus said, “Do not judge, so that you may not be judged” (Mt. 7:1), he was trying to warn us that our judgment of others will only kick-start a cycle of judgment, that his divine Light will expose this cycle of judgment that we initiated and are trapped within (Jn.3:19–21), that we need to look at ourselves only and our own need for repentance, as we are all in the same boat—not one above another—but that Jesus’ perfect humility and kenotic co-suffering love means that he is unique in his ability to step outside this boat and walk on the water in which I know I will sink.

Jesus is God and I am not. We are all in the same boat, but hell is a solitary place where I alone reside.

-APK

_____________________________________________________________________

"You cannot be too gentle, too kind. Shun even to appear harsh in your treatment of each other. Joy, radiant joy, streams from the face of him who gives and kindles joy in the heart of him who receives. All condemnation is from the devil. Never condemn each other. We condemn others only because we shun knowing ourselves. When we gaze at our own failings, we see such a swamp that nothing in another can equal it. That is why we turn away, and make much of the faults of others. Instead of condemning others, strive to reach inner peace. Keep silent, refrain from judgement. This will raise you above the deadly arrows of slander, insult and outrage and will shield your glowing hearts against all evil." — St. Seraphim of Sarov (1754–1833)

As we start learning to pray, I would like to make it clear that what I mean by ‘learning to pray’ is not an attempt to justify or explain this in a speculative way. Rather, I would like to point out what one should be aware of, and what one can do if one wishes to pray. As I am a beginner myself, I will assume that you are also beginners, and we will try to begin together. I am not speaking to anyone who aims at mystical prayer or higher states of perfection, because these things will teach themselves. When God breaks through to us or when we break through to God, in certain exceptional circumstances, either because things suddenly disclose themselves with a depth we have never before perceived or when we suddenly discover in ourselves a depth where prayer abides and out of which it can gush forth, there is no problem of prayer. When we are aware of God, we stand before Him, worship Him, speak to Him.

At the outset there is, then, one very important problem: the situation of one for whom God seems to be absent. This is what I would like to speak about now. Obviously I am not speaking of a real absence — God is never really absent — but of the sense of absence which we have. We stand before God and we shout into an empty sky, out of which there is no reply. We turn in all directions and He is not to be found. What ought we to think of this situation?

First of all, it is very important to remember that prayer is an encounter and a relationship, a relationship which is deep, and this relationship cannot be forced either on us or on God. The fact that God can make Himself present or can leave us with the sense of His absence is part of this live and real relationship. If we could mechanically draw Him into an encounter, force Him to meet us, simply because we have chosen this moment to meet Him, there would be no relationship and no encounter. We can do that with an image, with the imagination, or with the various idols we can put in front of us instead of God; we can do nothing of the sort with the living God, any more than we can do it with a living person. A relationship must begin and develop in mutual freedom.

November 14, 2014

A great countryman of ours: a man to thank God for. - Robertson Davies

Stephen Leacock was known as one of the finest writers in the first half of the 20th century--a spellbinding and unique Canadian version of Dickens, Twain and Swift. Leacock has been called a Tory humanist and that he was—an Anglican grounded and rooted in the best of the classical Anglican way. Most know Leacock through his kindly satire, Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town (1912), but the companion and must read novel to Sunshine Sketches is Arcadian Adventures with the Idle Rich (1914). It is the 100th anniversary in 2014 of the publication of this brilliant novel that covers religion, politics, education, economics and much else. Arcadian Adventures has more bite, more demanding social satire and deeper probes than the sweeter and gentler Sunshine Sketches, but it is imperative that the two books be seen as one---the final chapter of Sunshine Sketches, “L’Envoi: The Train to Mariposa”, points the way and is the portal into Arcadian Adventures with the Idle Rich.

Arcadian Adventures with the Idle Rich is divided into 8 readable and compelling chapters: 1) A Little Dinner with Mr. Lucullus Fyshe, 2) The Wizard of Finance, 3) The Arrested Philanthropy of Mr. Tomlinson, 4) The Yahi-Bahi Oriental Society of Mrs. Rasselyer-Brown, 5) The Love Story of Mr. Peter Spillikins, 6) The Rival Churches of St. Asaph and St. Osoph, 7) The Ministrations of the Rev. Uttermust Dumfarthing and 8) The Great Fight for Clean Government. Each chapter, again and again, punctures the façade of image and public persona, clarifies the nature of crude and subtle hypocrisy and suggests an ideal worth living towards.

The chapters, “The Rival Churches of St. Asaph and St. Osoph (6)” and “The Ministrations of the Rev. Uttermust Dumfarthing (7)” illuminate, in a brilliant and poignant manner, the rot and flabbiness in a more aesthetic notion of Anglicanism that has lost its deeper theological and public way. It is impossible to miss in Arcadian Adventures Leacock’s High Tory concern for those who are poor and marginalized and how the idle and irresponsible rich ignore the needy with a multiplicity of silly diversions and distractions (including many religious ones). Leacock makes it abundantly clear in “The Yahi-Bahi Oriental Society of Mrs. Rasselyer-Brown (4)” what happens in the human quest when spirituality cuts itself loose from the moorings of religion----when religion goes bad, though (and Leacock does spoof this within Christianity), oriental spirituality is often idealized as the answer--Leacock is just as quick to puncture this romanticized oriental spirituality as he is debased Christian religion----there is a sort of prophetic vigor in Leacock’s insights and higher Anglican vision---such is the satirical way of such satirists such as Jonathan Swift---Leacock was, in many ways, a Canadian Tory Anglican Swift.

But there are remnants left around me…very strange remnants…in this case the Anglican Church which has in it some of the ancient truth and therefore I will live within it. – George Grant

Liberalism was, in origin, criticism of the old established order. Today, it is the voice of the establishment. – George Grant

George Grant was Canada’s most significant public philosopher, meaning that his public was Canadian. – Graeme Nicholson

They are foolish and ill-educated men who don’t recognize that, when they get into bed with liberalism, it won’t be they who do the impregnating—but that they will be utterly seduced. – Grant letter to Derek Bedson Sept. 21 1965

Part I

The inside flap on the recent book about George Grant, Athens and Jerusalem: George Grant’s Theology, Philosophy, and Politics (2006), says this: “George Grant (1918-1988) has been called Canada’s greatest political philosopher. To this day, his work continues to stimulate, challenge, and inspire Canadians to think more deeply about matters of social justice and individual responsibility. However, while there has been considerable discussion of Grant’s political theories, relatively little attention has been paid to their theological and philosophical underpinnings”. There is little doubt, in short, that Grant was the most important Christian public intellectual in Canada in the latter half of the 20th century, and for those who take their faith with some intellectual seriousness, much can be learned from George Grant the prophet, theologian, philosopher and engaged thinker.

Athens and Jerusalem walks the extra mile to highlight the deep theological well where Grant turned to slake a thirsty and parched soul. There is more to Grant, though, than the theological and philosophical underpinnings for his public vision. George Grant was an Anglican, and, sadly so, his Anglicanism has often been ignored. In the midst of the culture wars in the Anglican Church of Canada, Grant can offer us a way through and beyond the theological and ethical tribalism of left and right, liberal and conservative that so besets and divides us these days.

It was June 4, 2000. A beautiful Sunday afternoon in early summer. I was sitting on my front step reading Saint Augustine’s Confessions. At that time I hadn’t yet begun to explore the Church Fathers, that would come four years later. But I was reading classic literature. I had given up on the trite tomes of pop Christianity. I already knew what they said. In a desire to read something of worth I had returned to the treasures of classic literature that I had first learned to love in Mrs. Zaft’s high school literature class. I had read a fair number of the classics, but I had never read Confessions — the first, and perhaps greatest, spiritual autobiography in history. I had decided to read Augustine’s Confessions for basically the same reason that I read Milton’s Paradise Lost or Melville’s Moby Dick — because it was an established classic in the canon of Western literature. And it is a remarkable book. The whole autobiography is a 350-page prayer. The book begins with this prayer:

You are great, Lord, and highly to be praised: Great is your power and your wisdom is immeasurable. Man, a little piece of your creation, desires to praise you, a human being bearing his mortality with him, carrying with him the witness of his sin and the witness that you resist the proud. Nevertheless, to praise you is the desire of man, a little piece of your creation. You stir man to take pleasure in praising you, because you have made us for yourself, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.

“Our heart is restless until it rests in you.” Those words resonated with me. Sure, I was a Christian. But I was also a man with a restless heart. A year earlier I had turned forty while climbing Mount Kilimanjaro in Africa. Now I was beginning to think about the second half of life…and I was restless. I had plenty of success, but I was restless. I was still searching and the clock was ticking. I feared I was running out of time. As I read Confessions Augustine told me his story.

November 13, 2014

In John 3:19-21, Christ overtly identifies the nature of divine judgment:

"And this is the judgment, that the light has come into the world, and people loved darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil. For all who do evil hate the light and do not come to the light, so that their deeds may not be exposed. But those who do what is true come to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that their deeds have been done in God” (Jn. 3:19–21).

So, Christ's judgment is overtly identified as divine Light. This is why Orthodoxy doesn't hold to a dualistic view of the afterlife, wherein we are sent to one of two physical locations—heaven or hell. Instead, heaven or hell is our subjective experience at our posthumous encounter with Christ (or divine Light, à la the Transfiguration on Mt. Tabor), who is—of course—immutable. If God is immutable, he cannot change from divine love in an anthropomorphized manner (i.e., as we understand it through familiar social analogies in our finite state). Fr. Thomas Hopko puts it this way:

"[I]t is precisely the presence of God’s mercy and love which cause the torment of the wicked. God does not punish; he forgives. . . . In a word, God has mercy on all, whether all like it or not. If we like it, it is paradise; if we do not, it is hell. Every knee will bend before the Lord. Everything will be subject to Him. God in Christ will indeed be 'all and in all,' with boundless mercy and unconditional pardon. But not all will rejoice in God’s gift of forgiveness, and that choice will be judgment, the self-inflicted source of their sorrow and pain" (Foreword in Sergei Bulgakov, 'The Orthodox Church,' xiii).

So, understanding the judgment of Christ as Light (which is what he himself identifies it as) is key here. For example, St. Gregory of Nyssa (c.335–395) explains this subjective phenomenon from the plague of darkness in Exodus, even while the Hebrews still experienced this darkness as Light:

"It was not some constraining power from above that caused the one to be found in darkness and the other in light, but we men have in ourselves, in our own nature and by our own choice, the causes of light or darkness, since we place ourselves in whichever sphere we wish to be” ('The Life of Moses,' 2.80).

So, God does not change nor have shifting mood swings and is therefore categorically not actively meting out his wrath as we popularly and anthropomorphically understand it. Instead, he is immutably divine love, mercy, and forgiveness, and the experience of wrath is one of self-condemnation and incompatibility with divine Light, much like when Christ, in his compassion, said to Paul on the road to Damascus, "Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me? It is hard for you to kick against the goads [spikes]" (Acts 26:14). The act of persecuting Jesus therefore has the experience of "wrath" built into it, but it is self-inflicted since God is immutably love—the divine Light.

I’ve written about other books that have convinced me of the viewpoint of Evangelical Universalism, that hell, though real, does not last forever and ever. This book had some ideas in it that are new to me and answered some of my last points of doubt. It is the book I will now recommend to evangelicals who have studied theology and are concerned about believing what the Bible teaches.

It’s interesting to me that Bradley Jersak was especially strong in explaining a Universalist view of Revelation – yet he is not dogmatic about his views at all. He sounds more like I did when my eyes were first opened to the possibility that this might be true, that this might really be what the Bible is teaching.

Here’s his explanation in the introductory chapter, “Presumptions and Possibilities.” First he explains three theological views about hell: Infernalism, that unbelievers will be tormented forever and ever; annihilationism, that those who go to hell will be completely consumed and no longer exist; and universalism, that hell won’t last more than an age and will eventually be emptied out, and God will be all in all. He goes on to give his own perspective:

We all have a bias. The important thing is to recognize your bias and be able to defend or explain it. As a “critical realist,” I spend a good deal of time and energy studying my biases – how they emerged, and how they influence my thinking. Rather than pretending to be perfectly objective, I confess that since my early days as a terrified infernalist, I have developed a strong preference for hope. I hope in the Good News that God’s love rectifies every injustice through forgiveness and reconciliation.

November 12, 2014

This post offers an easy way to approach the doctrine of the Trinity without ever talking about the doctrine of the Trinity! You will note that the word "Trinity" does not appear in the main body of this post!

During a recent mission trip to Zambia, I visited mighty Victoria Falls, a thundering, mile-wide torrent of water falling hundreds of feet into the lower Zambesi River. Later that evening, gazing in awe at the countless stars in the night sky above a remote area of Zambia, I saw the “Southern Cross,” a constellation visible only from the southern hemisphere. In awe of the sights and sounds of the day, I praised God for the majesty of creation.

Thundering waterfalls, countless stars in the night sky, majestic mountains rising above the clouds, vast oceans with their unexplored depths―these marvels of nature create in us a sense of awe and mystery. Most rational people believe that “something” or “Someone” brought the universe into existence. The beauty and design of the world around us, including the regular, lawful movement of the heavenly bodies, attest the existence of “God”―an all-powerful, all-knowing Creator, Designer and Lawgiver, who brought all things into existence and governs them with infinite power and wisdom.

In the western-Latin theological tradition, “natural” theology―that is, rational reflection on nature (i.e., “creation”)―has been the starting point for speculation about God. In the Middle Ages, Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274) developed his famous “five ways” of knowing God, each based on the principle that a “cause” can be known by its “effects.” Following the Greek philosopher Aristotle, Aquinas argued that creation (i.e., “effects”) demands a “Creator” (i.e., “First Cause”), while the design inherent in the universe attests a “Designer.” Just as we can draw inferences about an artist by studying his or her paintings, for Aquinas, we can draw conclusions about the nature of God by studying his “handiwork” (i.e., “nature”).[i] Following Aquinas, theology textbooks continue to describe God primarily in the abstract language of “natural” theology, where God is conceived primarily in negativeterms, such as “infinite,” (not finite), “immutable” (not changeable) and “impassible” (not able to suffer).

The abstract, impersonal Deity of natural theology underlies American civil religion, wherein the “God” in whom “we trust” is conceived primarily as “Maker,” “Designer” and “Lawgiver.” In our multicultural, politically-correct society, this generic view of God is easily fitted to Christianity, Judaism and Islam, so that the pastor, rabbi and imam can ceremoniously unite in joint (albeit generally vague) prayers to the “Creator.” The “all-purpose” Deity of American civil society is the God of religion, the impersonal “Judge” who presides over a vast meritocracy, watching us from a distance with his “”all-seeing eye,”[ii]rewarding those who do “good” and reserving stiff penalties for those who do “evil.”

November 11, 2014

I am preparing now to give a presentation at the Antiochian Orthodox Institute in the Fall on the topic of divinization or theosis according to St. Isaac the Syrian. I have been enjoying reading through the latest edition of St. Isaac’s homilies, and when I was asked to present a small lecture on some aspect of the topic of theosis, I suggested that my focus be St. Isaac. Most of the time, when Orthodox Christian people speak about theosis, they focus on the language and patterns presented in the Philokalia. Specifically, following St. Maximus the Confessor, we usually speak of three steps or phases in the process of theosis. [By the way, theosis--also sometimes called deification or divinization--refers to the process or experience by which one becomes, by Grace, more like Christ, that is more like God]. The three steps or stages of theosis according to St. Maximus the Confessor and the tradition of the Philokalia are these: purification, illumination and theosis.

In this most common way to look at or present the process or experience of theosis, purification generally refers to our cooperation with the Grace of God to purge passionate thoughts from our minds. But purifying our minds of passionate thoughts begins with controlling our bodies through ascetic discipline. Therefore, the beginning of theosis is often found in beginning to control oneself physically leading to a knowledge of oneself that makes the purification of the thoughts, by the Grace of God, possible.

Illumination refers to the knowledge of God, again and always granted by Grace, that transcends the rational aspect of our minds. This knowledge of God is often referred to as noetic after the Greek word for ‘mind’; however, in this context it does not refer to ‘mind’ as we usually think of the word in English. It refers to the aspect of our mind that is open to and perceives spiritual, heavenly realities. There is no equivalent word for this aspect of the mind in English, which is why the Greek word noetic is generally used, although the words ‘heart’ and ‘spirit’ are sometimes used in English to try to get at this higher or deeper knowledge: for example, we might say something like “knowing God in your heart” or “to know God spiritually” to try to distinguish this kind of knowledge from merely rational knowledge, knowledgeabout God.

Vivid memories of words, pictures and emotions haunt me over thirty years later. High school English, my senior year and Mr. Howell is perched on the front corner of his desk. He’s using poetry to paint traumatizing portraits of the ironically mislabeled ‘war to end all wars.’ Words become pictures—teenage soldiers ‘floundering’ and ‘fumbling’ in the muddy, bloody trenches of the Second Battle of Ypres. They’re devising makeshift masks of urine-soaked rags against the apocalyptic horror of mustard gas attacks. Mr. Howell, now weeping, recites an excerpt from William Owen’s poem, Dulce et Decorum Est:

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . . Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning ...

Dulce et Decorum Est? Sweet and fitting? Owen goes on to bitterly describe the convulsive gargling of ‘froth-corrupted lungs’ and says NO! Participants in ‘the Great War’ would never recount such a lie to children who dream of doing or being something glorious.

The Greek poet, Horace, who coined the phrase, had never seen chemical warfare. Neither had we until network news brought us images from Syria last year—hundreds of civilians, including children, wrapped in death shrouds awaiting burial. Barbaric. Inhuman. But remember who it was that first invented and employed gas attacks: supposedly ‘Christian’ nations at the height of industrial civilization, mutually destroying one another in the greatest human disaster since the Black Death (1348-50). Nine million dead before all is said and done.

Wilfred Owen knew the futility of war. Like Mr. Howell, an English teacher by profession, Owen enlisted after visiting wounded soldiers in a hospital. He fought for two years, was injured, but then returned to the front. Three months later, on Nov. 4, 1918, he died in a machine gun attack, exactly one week before the war ended.

November 10, 2014

The issue can be settled into two terms: the Bible teaches truth but it does not teach thepath. These two terms are Bonhoeffer’s and emerged from the intense discussions in the Confessing Church on whether their pastors should pursue legalization under Hitler or remain “illegal” and dependent on free will offerings by the parishes that called them and would support them.

The debate was about what the Bible tells us about. Here are Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s salient words about the need for discernment on the basis of truth, but that discernment meant there was no fixed path:

The other misunderstanding concerning scriptural evidence stems from the same root: one now looks to justify our paths not for the past but for the future. We expect from Scripture such concrete directives that we are released from acting on faith; one wants to see the path before walking on it. One demands the certainty that the path will certainly be pleasing to God before starting the journey. One says: if we could be absolutely certain on the basis of Scripture that the path of the Council of Brethren is pleasing to God, then we would follow it. Demonstrate this from Scripture and we will follow. Thus I want to have the scriptural evidence in my pocket as the guarantee for my path.

But the Bible can never fulfill this kind of request either, because it is not intended to be an insurance policy for our paths, which may become dangerous.

The Bible does only one thing: it calls us to faith and obedience in the truth that we know in Jesus Christ. Scripture points not to our paths but to the truth of God.

Scot McKnight is a recognized authority on the New Testament, early Christianity, and the historical Jesus. McKnight, author of more than forty books, is the Professor of New Testament at Northern Seminary in Lombard, IL.

November 07, 2014

I

The Dilemma

There has been an unfortunate tendency within the ongoing conversation of the prophetic to, predictably so, distort the complex tension of the prophetic. Those who hold high the apocalyptic nature of the prophetic often equate such a notion of the prophetic with a simplistic end time scenario in which the Jews and state of Israel are unduly romanticized and beyond the pale of legitimate criticism. This rather simplistic identification with the Jews-Israel-end time apocalyptic prophetic is fraught with problems. It is quite understandable, therefore, why the more thoughtful see the prophetic in a more ethical sense. Many of the Jewish prophets and the Beatitudes-Sermon on the Mount hold high the principles of justice and peacemaking. It is this higher ethic that, when rightly understood, ponders the disproportion of power between the Israeli state and Palestinians living in Gaza, West Bank, Israel or dispersed because of Israeli economic and military power.

Those who take the position that the apocalyptic prophetic trumps and marginalizes the ethical prophetic often become docile servants for the perpetuation of a graphic and tragic injustice between the state of Israel and the Palestinians. Those who hold high the banner of the ethical prophetic often dismiss the apocalyptic prophetic as reactionaries and witless biblicists of American-Israeli power that aids and abets injustice and fans the flames of war. In short, there has been and continues to be those who adhere to an either-or approach to the dilemma. Should the apocalyptic subordinate the ethical or the ethical the apocalyptic? Much, of course, hinges on what we mean by apocalyptic and ethical prophetic.

II

Beyond the Dilemma

The Greek word from which we get apocalyptic means ‘unveiling, revealing, unconcealing’—that which has been hidden and concealed is now being unconcealed and revealed. The issue, of course, is what is being revealed in such historic moments, such Kairos events that are unfolding before us? The simplistic approach equates the return of the Jews to Palestine in the 19th century, the founding of the state of Israel in 1948, Israeli victory in the 1967 war as part of God’s unveiling of prophetic portents that herald the end of time. But, is such an interpretation that simple and obvious. Can we be absolutely sure about what is being revealed and unconcealed in this mysterious and unfolding drama? Is there a mystery at work that still eludes us? In short, if the apocalyptic is understood as something happening, something being afoot in the Middle East and global politics that is occurring and yet the deeper and fuller meaning and content still being illusive, we can take a position of waiting and attentiveness. It is this ability to wait upon, to be attentive to a deeper mystery that is beyond our ken that might open up some possibilities for a more positive approach to the apocalyptic prophetic (in opposition to the more simplistic approach that often dominates the day).

There are those who hold high the ethical prophetic in opposition to the more simplistic apocalyptic prophetic, but such an approach can miss the subtler and more mysterious reality of an unfolding and revealing in our historic Kairos moment---to only equate Kairos with the ethical prophetic might mean a missing of the deeper reality of what is straining to be revealed at this moment of history. It is absolutely necessary that the ethical prophetic (justice-peacemaking) be an imperative in this dialogue, but an excessive attention to such an approach might conceal much. There is always the danger, of course, of the ethical prophetic becoming excessively ideological. This can be a temptation of liberationist theology.

III

Two Questions

We need, in conclusion, to ask ourselves two questions: What does the cruder notion of the apocalyptic conceal and what might a subtle approach of the apocalyptic yet reveal? What does the ethical and liberationist approach to the prophetic reveal and what conceal? As we inch closer to answering such questions, our understanding of the prophetic will be more mature, incisive and insightful. Much, though, hangs in a precarious balance—attention and waiting are the means of authentic hearing—a passing through the portal into a genuine prophetic insight and vocation.

The following is a dialogue between Brad Jersak and Peter Hordern, about Pauls' use of retribution language (in 2 Thessalonians 1), rhetorical criticism and the nonviolence of God.

Peter: I'm continuing to wrestle with the idea of God as nonviolent. I feel like I see the truth of God's nonviolence through Christ and his teachings, particularly on forgiveness. However, then I also read what Paul writes, especially in his epistles to the Thessalonians, which refer to end times and Gods punishment.

What do we do with that? Is it our wishful thinking that God really is as loving as we want Him to be? Or do we pass off Paul's writings as a man trying to encourage a church in persecution with Gods justice, in order to give meaning to their suffering? Are there different translation possibilities? What do the words 'punishment' that Paul writes about really mean?

Brad: I do have some thoughts about this, as did certain church fathers like Clement of Alexandria (150-215 AD). First, he pointed out that Paul never uses the Greek words that we'd associate with retributive 'punishment,' but rather, always uses words best translated 'correction.' Let's start with him. The following is an excerpt from my book, Her Gates Will Never Be Shut:

Clement’s importance, in my mind, is that he clarifies the New Testament language for “punishment.” (cf. esp. Paed. 1.5; 1.8 ANF 2).Clement insists that God’s “correction” (paideia—Heb 12:9) and “chastisement” (kolasis—Matt 25:46) is as a loving Father, only and always meant for the healing and salvation of the whole world. He denies that God ever inflicts “punishment” (timōria—Heb 10:29—vengeance) in the vengeful sense, a word Jesus never used. Watch how Clement ties judgment to correction with a view to redemption:

For all things are arranged with a view to the salvation of the universe by the Lord of the universe, both generally and particularly. . . But necessary corrections, through the goodness of the great overseeing Judge, both by the attendant angels, and by various acts of anticipative judgment, and by the perfect judgment, compel egregious sinners to repent. (Strom. 7.2 ANF 2).

... One can see how Clement read God’s corrective acts through the parental love emphasized in Heb 12:5–11, where we read that God disciplines those that he loves as dear children. For Clement, Providence uses corrections (padeiai) or chastisements (kolasis) when we fall away, but only for our good, only for our salvation. But God does not punish (timōria),which is retaliation for evil. (Strom. 7.16 ANF 2).

God deals with sin through correction, not punishment. That’s Clement, that’s Hebrews, that’s Hosea. The chastisements of God are disciplinary: not because divine justice demands satisfaction, payback, or wrath, but because a patient God is raising beloved children who tend to learn the hard way. The hardest lesson we learn is the lesson of the Cross: the jarring revelation that somehow each of us is complicit in the crucifixion of perfect Love (Zech 12:10), yet in love God forgave us (1 John 4:9–10)...

The Cross is a revelation of God’s love, our violence, and Jesus’ power to forgive and redeem—all at once. Don’t miss this point, because it marks a major fork in the theological trail. For centuries, I fear that we veered when Clement already had it right.

November 06, 2014

If you visit the Islamic world you quickly become acquainted with the adhan — the Muslim call to prayer. You may very well become acquainted with it at five o’clock in the morning! Five times a day, beginning before sunrise, you hear the cry of the muezzin from the minarets — Allahu Akbar. It’s a call to prayer. When I first began to travel in the Islamic world I reacted to the call to prayer with an irritation rooted in cultural disdain and religious triumphalism. I was annoyed by it. I didn’t want to hear it. But eventually I began to feel differently about it. To be honest, I was envious. Here was a culture with a public call to prayer.

In the secular, post-Christian West we have nothing like this. The best we can manage is to clandestinely bow our heads for ten seconds in a restaurant and hope no one notices. We don’t call people to prayer. Few Christians living outside of monasteries pray five times a day. We pray whenever we feel like it…and too much of the time we don’t feel like it. But in the Islamic world I found a religious culture that publicly calls people to prayer five times a day! I was envious of a society that holds to a religious tradition where prayer is taken seriously and is attended to in a prescribed manner. So when I heard the adhan I would wistfully think, I wish we had something like that. Then one day the pieces fell in place.

I was walking through the cobblestone streets of the Old City of Jerusalem on a Sunday morning when I began to hear the bells toll. Church bells. A cacophony of sacred sound centuries old. Orthodox bells, Catholic bells, Anglican bells, Lutheran bells. The enormous bells from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre seemed to belong to another age. It was a wonder I found strangely moving. That’s when it dawned on me — this is the Christian adhan. Church bells are the Christian call to prayer. (A practice predating the Muslim adhan by centuries.) Of course I knew this, but I had somehow forgotten it. I had forgotten the bells just as the post-Christian West has forgotten the bells.